Austin opened his work knife and stepped up to the golden fruit in Li Xiaoyao’s arms.
It was as large as a cannonball. Warm orange light shone through its skin, and beads of nectar hissed where they fell on the porch boards.
He held the fruit steady and sliced away a thin piece.
Shhhhhk.
Austin tasted it and chewed slowly. His eyes widened behind his welding goggles.
“Sweet. Crisp. No rot, no dry spots, clean flesh right to the stone. That’s excellent fruit.”
He wiped the blade on his jeans.
“Constant full-spectrum light will do that. The tree never clocks out. It can photosynthesize all day instead of shutting down at night. It turned sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into sugar at several times the normal rate. Basic horticulture.”
Xiaoyao’s arms shook beneath the fruit. “Grand Senior, this is not horticulture. It is resurrection! Three hours ago, this was a stunted tree clinging to the eastern cliff. For sixty years, it produced bitter little fruits that even goats refused. When your sun ignited, its trunk split open and golden sap ran down the bark. New leaves unfurled. In two hours, forty-eight heavenly longevity peaches ripened!”
He took a breath.
“The old quarry sorter had only three months left to live. Stone-lung rot. He ate half a fallen peach. His hair turned black, he coughed out sixty years of quarry dust, and then he ran three miles without stopping. The village healer says he gained two hundred years of life!”
Austin folded his knife. “The fruit may be helping his body repair itself. That doesn’t make it a god.”
Before he could say more, the freight lift slammed to a stop.
Tie Kuang ran up the porch steps with an armful of dispatches. His green glasses were pushed onto his forehead, and his hard hat sat crooked.
“Master Chu! Emergency reports from Governor Zhao and sixty southern prefectures!”
“What broke? Did the snowmelt wash out the highway?”
“No! It’s an agricultural miracle!” Tie Kuang thrust a dispatch toward him. “The light from your second sun has reached three million acres of farmland in the last few hours!”
He pointed to the first report.
“Winter wheat that wasn’t due to sprout until spring grew, formed heads, and ripened in less than four hours!”
He flipped the page.
“The black stem rust that plagued the southern valleys for sixty years is gone! Orchards are collapsing under giant melons! Bedridden elders have jumped up, grabbed hoes, and run into the fields singing hymns to Sunset Peak!”
Austin scanned the reports.
“Constant light explains the fast growth. Strong ultraviolet light could kill the fungus. But look at the last pages.”
The good news hid worse numbers. Three fast harvests had stripped test plots of nitrogen. Leaves on the fourth planting were yellow at the tips. Two villages had doubled their well pumping and pulled cloudy water into the lower canals. A county agronomist warned that bare fields were already losing topsoil to the warm wind.
“If we let them chase another instant crop, they’ll strip the soil and foul their own water. The rotation order stands.”
Tie Kuang stared at him, then pointed toward the valley.
“Master Chu, you need to see the road.”
Austin leaned over the rail.
The highway from the Canglan plains was packed from the mountain base to the horizon. Ten thousand wagons, oxcarts, and wheelbarrows carried wheat, cured hams, wine, melons, and medicinal roots. Tens of thousands of farmers and villagers walked beside them, singing and holding incense burners.
Many carried clay statues above their heads.
“What are those?” Austin asked.
Jiang Taixu stepped onto the porch and adjusted his green glasses.
“Master Chu, people across four southern provinces have torn down their old mountain-god shrines.”
“Why are they destroying public property?”
“Because the mountain gods never ripened their wheat in an afternoon. In place of the old idols, they have raised shrines to the Lord of High Noon.”
Jiang took a six-inch clay figure from his sleeve and set it beside Austin’s tea.
Austin picked it up.
The figure had a square jaw, a midnight-blue hard hat, and green goggles painted with crushed malachite. Its orange tunic had silver stripes. Over one shoulder rested a tiny pipe wrench.
“Is this supposed to be me?”
“It is your divine avatar!” Jiang said. “The people revere you as the Master Builder of Creation, the Golden Sun Sovereign who brought endless bounty!”
Austin frowned at the figure’s waist.
“Why did they paint my tool belt yellow?”
Jiang blinked. “Pardon?”
“My belt is dark brown saddle leather. Yellow nylon is for cheap homeowner kits. Wear that on a commercial framing job, and the crew will laugh you off the scaffold.”
He set the figure down.
“And the wrench handle is wrong. It looks like a corncob. A grip like that would tear your palm open.”
Tie Kuang waved the dispatches. “Master Chu, ten thousand wagonloads of offerings are heading for our gate! The people expect a proclamation from the Lord of High Noon! What are your orders?”
Austin tucked the figure into his bib pocket and opened his clipboard.
“First, open the backup grain silos on Floor 1. Leave that much grain in the open and we’ll have beetles within two days. Weigh every wagon, test moisture, and issue receipts.”
Jiang gasped. “Receipts for sacred offerings? Gods do not count their tribute!”
“I’m not a god. I’m a general contractor, and contractors track inventory. Second, send an agricultural memo to all sixty prefectures.”
Jiang produced a brush and inkstone.
“The Sovereign’s Divine Mandate! What holy scripture shall I write?”
“Subject: soil management under continuous daylight.”
Jiang’s brush stopped. “Soil management?”
“Write it. Fast-growing crops are pulling nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium out of the soil. If farmers plant another wheat crop right away, they’ll exhaust the topsoil. By midsummer, they could turn the southern plains into a dust bowl.”
Jiang wrote quickly. In his version, the Sovereign warned that mortal greed would summon the Great Dust Demon.
“After this harvest, one field in four gets clover, alfalfa, or field peas. Those crops work with bacteria in their roots to restore nitrogen. Rotate the fields. This isn’t optional.”
Austin pointed his pencil at Jiang.
“Send that to every village headman. If anyone refuses to plant a cover crop, I’ll inspect the farm myself and review their water allocation.”
Jiang blew on the ink.
“The Sovereign’s wisdom is boundless! The Holy Rite of the Three-Leaf Clover shall be carved on every village gate!”
“It’s not a holy rite. It’s basic biology.”
Austin reached for his tea.
The world stopped.
The warm air turned forty degrees colder in an instant.
HISSSSSS!
A freezing gale cut through the porch rails. Frost spread over the cedar boards. Austin’s cup rattled against its saucer.
A deep rumble rolled through Mount Clear Sky. The four hundred pounds of lead in Austin’s pockets vibrated with it.
On the terraces, fifty thousand workers fell silent. In the valley, farmers dropped their incense pots as the wagons shook.
High above, the five-thousand-mile storm vortex stopped turning.
Its center contracted from fifty miles wide to a single black point. That point fixed on the roof of the Timber Lodge and Austin’s midnight-blue hard hat.
Space split open.
Nine enormous coils of violet lightning tore through the gap. Each stretched for leagues and thrashed like an ancient serpent. Five hundred million volts hissed across the sky.
The Heavenly Dao had run out of patience.
The Nine-Headed Ancient Violet Lightning Dragon had awakened.